


Storm's End

by Baylock



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - ASOIAF/GOT, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Fluff, Historical Fantasy, Knights - Freeform, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baylock/pseuds/Baylock
Summary: Ignis is a newly minted Maester, trained and chained in the Citadel of Oldtown.Skilled in the scholarly arts and those of healing, ravenry, arithmetic, accountancy, astronomy and warcraft, he is sent to Storm's End, the seat of House Baratheon, Lords Paramount of the Stormlands, to do his duty. Having put aside his name, claims and titles when he took his role, Ignis will serve as advisor to the Stormlord for the rest of his life.He thought knew what to expect of that new life, that of an advisor, a messenger, his role rooted in scientific servitude. It had all been laid out for him, as easy to read as a map charting the land or the stars, from his time as an acolyte to the taking of his vows. It seemed so simple, in its way......but that was until he laid eyes on Lord Clarus Baratheon's son and heir, Gladiolus.After that, it all seemed that little bit more complicated.
Relationships: Gladiolus Amicitia/Ignis Scientia
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	Storm's End

**Author's Note:**

> This was written a few years ago, 2017, if memory serves, but I still enjoy the setting and the characters enough to pick it back up, blow off the dust, give it a polish and put it up here.
> 
> It isn't a fandom I usually write for, either A Song of Ice and Fire or Final Fantasy XV, but I know both of them well. 
> 
> It is something of a slow burn, something of an AU and a little bit of a crossover. Other characters from other fandoms may fill the roles of background characters, where there are none from FFXV that fit, but they, like the main ones, will be altered in name to fit the world. Knowledge of them isn't necessary, but it might be fun if you recognise them all the same.
> 
> This will primarily be a Gladio/Ignis fic, though they both have a bit of growing to do before that happens.

Storm's End loomed on the distant horizon, looking for all the world more mountain than castle. 

Ignis, newly _Maester_ Ignis, sat up a little straighter in the saddle of his borrowed old stot to better see the seat he would soon serve. Even from such a distance, with the grey water of Shipbreaker Bay glittering beyond the coast and the roiling sky threatening rain above, Storm's End looked impossibly vast. It wasn't as elegant as many of the other Great Castles of the Seven Kingdoms, but it had never been conquered, neither by siege nor by force of nature, or so the history books said, and he had devoured them all. 

He had read the legends and the lineages, the histories and the fantasies, hard fact and fanciful rumour. 

It was almost hard to believe that a maester so newly minted, and so young, was to be allowed to serve a House so old that it had the blood of the First Men, the Andals, and if the histories were true, Old Valyria, running in their veins. House Baratheon, or at least its predecessor, spanned millennia, not centuries, though the stag that stood combatant on their sigil was as black as it had ever been, without a shred of grey to show its many years. 

Ignis knew that before Aegon's Conquest, House Baratheon and all of its lands and titles had stood under the name of Durrandon. When the last Storm King fell to the blade of the conqueror's bastard half brother, Orys Baratheon, his daughter sealed herself inside the keep knowing that it could never be taken by siege, and declared herself the Storm Queen. Fearing suffering the same fate as Harren the Black and his sons, the men who garrisoned the castle are said to have sent her out to the victorious Orys, naked and in chains. Instead of humiliating the girl, Orys Baratheon treated her kindly, wrapping his cloak around her and removing her bindings. He would later marry her, and take her family's sigil, words and colours for his own to mark the bravery of her father, who met him in open combat instead of cowering behind his walls. 

The thought of such an act of chivalry brought a touch of a smile to Ignis's lips, fanciful tale though it was. It was a curiously romantic notion, for all it had come to be during a time of great bloodshed, and it was noble. After all, Orys Baratheon could have chosen to wipe out all sign of the old house and replace it all the trappings of his own choosing, words and sigil and all the rest. 

Such kindness was not oft seen in the heat of war and conquest, and it was a trait he hoped had carried through the blood to the current masters of Storm's End. 

"Nearly there now," came the brittle voice of the cart driver, one of two men that Maester Ignis had made the journey from Oldtown with, and who he had come to know as Old Beck.

Not looking up, the maester re-arranged the worn reins in his hands to give himself something to do that wasn't fiddle with his chain. Old Beck wasn't a bad man, not by any means, but he tended to talk, at length, about everything, as though he was an expert on it, and he had opinions on it all. As if that wasn't bad enough, the cart driver had a sourleaf habit, something that had turned his teeth and mouth an awful red over his years of chewing. Maester Ignis did not look over, opting to spare himself the sight of red-pink froth on the old man's lips. Somehow, something in the iron-grey afternoon had managed to stem the near-constant flow of nonsense and piffle, though it had done nothing to stop the chewing and spitting.

Maester Ignis's other riding companion caught his eye, but said nothing. He didn't need to. The look was significant enough.

He was a Knight sworn to House Baratheon. Mercifully quiet and getting on in years without yet becoming old, Ser Dustin Dondarrion was not an easy man to speak to, but he had remained a pleasant presence for the entire journey. He had been sent along for Maester Ignis's protection and to ensure he made the journey safely. It was, after all, a long way, and more than one of the links of his chain was forged from gold. 

"Indeed," said Ignis, looking from his reins to the distant castle. "It looks to be only an hour or so's ride away now." He had a horrible feeling that those last few would feel almost as long as the entirety of the rest of the trip.

The road had been long and, sometimes, hard. More than a moon's turn of travel had taken its toll on both Ignis's back and buttocks and his hands were sore from too many days holding onto old leather. He knew it would have been worse had he not had spent plenty of those days sitting in the back of the cart with his belongings, half to read and relax and half to escape the ever-present torrent of wittering from the old man. He felt almost cruel for escaping it and leaving the brunt of the barrage to his bodyguard, but he did such an admirable job of letting it wash over him with scant comment in reply that he couldn't find it in him to feel too much guilt. 

"About that, aye," Ser Dustin said after a moment of thought. 

_A mere few hours..._ thought Maester Ignis, feeling the nervousness crawling up to him like a cat, sly and soft footed. He didn't consider himself an irrational man, but the curious mixture of excitement and fear knotted his stomach as he looked up at the castle that positively dominated the skyline. 

There was, of course, nothing to worry about. They had been informed of his coming with a raven sent from Bronzegate two days past and his Knightly escort and maester's chain were more than enough to vouch for him in the way of credentials, but it was nonetheless hard on his nerves. It was a new life he was walking into, not just a castle. He would, Seven willing, be serving in the halls of Storm's End until his final day, as the last maester had. 

"You gonna ride up to the gate, or are you after switching to the cart, maester?" Old Beck asked, jabbing a thumb behind him. 

Maester Ignis strongly considered the possibility of sitting on comfortable straw for the remainder of the journey. He ached all over from poor sleep and from the saddle, but he had spent enough time in the cart instead of sitting the pony as it was. His grey robes were already dusted brown and skirted with black from travel and he longed for a bath. Sitting in the cart wouldn't make him presentable for Lord Baratheon, so he saw no sense in stopping. There was no way he was going to arrive at the gates of Storm's End clean. Nothing but hot water would remedy his situation and there was precious little of that about. 

Ride it was, then.

"No," he answered at last, casting his eyes back up to the churning grey clouds above. "But I thank you. I fear if I sit back in there I'll never get up again." 

"Aye, if you say so, maester," Old Beck said in his reedy voice, pausing to spit a gob of red down onto the road beside him. "Let's hope we get there before the rain starts, eh?"

And, as if on cue, Maester Ignis heard a deep rumble of thunder in the distance.

* * * * * 

The rain was sheeting down thick and fast by the time the three of them reached the castle.

Up close, it looked immense, almost impossibly so. Intricate brickwork had protected the stronghold from wind and warrior for thousands of years, supposedly without taking upon its walls any of the marks of time. This near, however, it was obvious to Maester Ignis that the pale grey stone had been smoothed by the lashing rain of the storms of centuries. 

Legend spoke of magic having been woven into the stonework upon construction, with the Children of the Forest having helped the first Storm King, Durran Godsgrief, build a castle that would withstand the force of the fury of the sea god and the wind goddess, even after they had destroyed six others like it for his crime of marrying their daughter. Other tales suggested that Durran sought the help of a young boy, the same young boy who would grow up to become Brandon the Builder, the supposed founder of House Stark and the man who was said to have raised not only Winterfell, but the Wall as well. The stories said that when the seventh castle went up, no storm could touch the king within his walls, though the gods still throw their wrath down upon the descendants of the mortal man who stole their daughter even today.

For that reason, it is said, Storm's End is sometimes called by another name, _Durran's Defiance,_ in celebration of man's victory over the gods.

Maester Ignis knew that both stories were unlikely. Whimsical tales from the Age of Heroes, where everything was too old and too poorly documented to ever be proved and where so many kings were named the same that acts of heroism spanning thousands of years appear to have been all performed by one hand. 

Impossible. 

Whoever had constructed Storm's End, whatever their identity and whatever logic or magic helped them there, had certainly known what they were doing. Ignis stared up at the iron-banded door, small in the wall that rose up high enough to almost block the stormy sky from view, and swallowed. He fancied he could hear the pounding of the sea beyond, even over the rain and the thunder and the wind that pulled at his now soaking robes. If the legends had any truth to them, gods certainly know how to hold their grudges. 

Ser Dustin urged his mount forward, stopping short of the guards with their gold-soaked-to-brown surcoats bearing the antlers of the black stag of the house they served. Rain dripped off the helmets of the guards and that of Ser Dustin, but a look of recognition passed from one to the other all the same. Whether it was due to their knowing the purple forked thunderbolt of the Marcher Lord, or whether it was his face, Maester Ignis could not know. 

"It's the new maester," Ser Dustin said, raising his voice over the rumbling of thunder and the relentless rattling of rain hitting stone and metal. He indicated Maester Ignis astride his pony, shoulders hunched against the rain.

The guard relaxed. "Lord Clarus said you'd sent a raven," he said, adjusting his grip on the spear he held. 

Ignis noticed that he also had a sword and dagger at his belt, as did his counterpart at the other side of the door, who moved to have the great iron-belted door opened to allow them entry.

"Go on through." 

Ser Dustin led the way. As soon as they crossed the threshold all sound seemed to cease. The noise of the rain abruptly cut off and the sound of thunder and the roar of the ocean in the distance quieted to nothing. It was a silence almost too loud. Maester Ignis followed, his robes soaked through to his skin, and Old Beck brought up the rear, not daring to spit his foul gobs of sourleaf to the floor of the tunnel through the curtain wall, though his chewing could still be heard echoeing sloppily off the walls.

Above them, high above, candles seemed to burn from nowhere and holes, _murder holes_ , warned the unwary of the defenses held by Storm's End even if a siege did manage to break through the supposedly impenetrable walls. It was warmer than expected, as if the spring air had been trapped within in spite of the unseasonable chill, though there was a definite smell of dampness, like a dungeon or old storeroom, that hung in the ginnel like an invisible mist. Ignis knew the like well, for the Citadel was full of musty pockets of barely visited rooms and damp cellars.

The weather's din came back all at once as his pony stepped through the door on the other side. The sprawl beyond was wide and open and the maester, for the first time, got a good look at what Storm's End concealed behind its high stone walls. Through the rain he could see an open yard, more than wide enough for practicing the lance ahorse; stables and kennels, easily big enough to house a full cavalry worth of horses and a vast pack of hounds; guest buildings, spacious enough and yet modest; a sept, undoubtedly full of the usual accoutrements of the Faith; and the castle itself, a huge drum tower, high and formidable and built of the same perfectly curved, wind-resistant pale-grey stone as the wall that surrounded it and all else. His books told him that this contained all else one may need from a fortification, from barracks to granaries and the chambers of the lord and his family. Rain stung his eyes as he tried to take it all in and he was sure that there was more beyond that was as yet lost to the deluge. 

"Maester, this way," Ser Dustin said, remaining ahorse. 

Maester Ignis took his cue from him to do the same. A glance down told him that the ground was muddied and wet from the rain and that his attire, if it could get any worse, certainly would if subjected to the mire beneath his pony's hooves. They didn't seem to mind. Even the beastly, ill-tempered mule that pulled Old Beck's cart didn't waver at the squishy ground under her feet, though he did not doubt that she would snap her flat teeth and kick out at any dog that came too close. Fortunately, they all seemed to be stowed in the kennels, keeping out of the rain as any animal with the option might.

In short order, he was taken into the main hall, dismounting only when the walk was going to be short and reasonably dry. A stableboy took his mount by the reins and he saw Old Beck get down from his cart into thick, splashing mud and help another lead his own into the dry. He dithered for a moment, trying not to think about what might happen to his few oilskin-protected possessions between now and when he might see them again, but ultimately followed the knight without comment. 

The Great Hall of Storm's End was warm and large, with a fire roaring at one end. Rich tapestries of hunting scenes and historical fancies decorated the walls amongst silks of House Baratheon's colours, black and gold. Stags carved in wood and stone reared and rutted throughout and the antlered heads of mounted trophies, no doubt brought down in the King's Wood by generations of enthusiastic Baratheon hunters, peered out across all with glass eyes that shone red and yellow and orange in the firelight. At the head of it all, Lord Clarus Baratheon sat in his antlered chair. 

He looked to Maester Ignis like he was unaccustomed to doing so, or if he wasn't, had no great love of it. Seeing guests was a common practice for Lords high and low, but they didn't spend all of their time in the carved chairs that stood prominent in their halls. They had solars, and spent their time doing other things, often with swords, bows, lances or reins in hand. Sometimes even quills. Lord Clarus looked stiff, though it could be the hour, or the storm, as much as anything else. Through the rippling, rain-lashed windows it was clear that a darkness unrelated to the weather was starting to descend. 

"Maester Ignis, my Lord," Ser Dustin said, pulling his helmet from his head as he stepped forward.

Ignis felt his heart beat a little faster at the formality of it all. There he was, standing in the halls of the Lord Paramount of the Stormlands, looking a fright, as grey and wet as a squirrel treed in a downpour. More than forty days he had been on the road, and his robes showed every hour of it. Mud splattered him up to the knee and he knew he was dripping onto the flagstone floor without needing to look. He could feel the rain slithering down his neck from his hair, most of which was plastered to his head and face, and he brought up a hand to brush away a drop of water that threatened to fall from the end of his nose.

"So I see," said Lord Clarus, getting up from his seat. 

His boots sounded loud in the silence, even over the crackle of the hearth and the pounding of the rain outside. He didn't hurry over. His steps were relaxed and measured and befitting a lord. Up close, Ignis realised how tall he was, and broad, like every story of every Baratheon he'd ever heard. His face was handsome, yet stern, and his once-black hair was more salt than pepper, but it hadn't thinned at all. He kept his white-streaked beard cropped short, instead of the immense, wild tangle that others of his name had been known for. In spite of his age, he had not gone to seed and Ignis knew he'd look as graceful and formidable dressed head to toe in plate and mail as he had when he was far younger. 

Ignis bowed his head, all but obscuring his Maester's chain. "My lord," he said, looking up after a moment into the storm blue eyes of the man whose house he would live to serve.

"Relax, Maester," he told him, an easy smile softening his features. He looked down at him, though not too far down, for Ignis wasn't exactly short himself, and studied him, his soaked hair, his cleanshaven face, his pale green eyes. "You are rather young to be a maester, are you not?" That he did not use the word 'boy' was a credit to his gentility. 

"Yes, my Lord," Maester Ignis answered, knowing that would come. It usually did. "I came early to the Citadel and began my studies as soon as I was able." He had been enrolled there as young as it was possible to be enrolled and he had studied hard as an acolyte, much harder than his peers. He had taken to the books and the learning as a duck to water and started forging his chain in his first year. It was a delicate thing, lacking the large, ungainly links of other maesters, and it sat around his throat barely looser than a collar. It was, nonetheless, impressive to behold, for while the chain was short and modest, the links were uniform, small and many. 

"Good," said Lord Clarus, putting a hand on his new maester's shoulder genially, heedless of the sopping grey roughspun upon which his palm came to rest. "Then I hope you will serve Storm's End for many years to come, as your predecessor did. How did the journey treat you?"

"Well enough, but for the length," Maester Ignis admitted, doing his best not to shiver in spite of the warmth of the hall. 

"You came by the Roseroad?" 

"Yes, my lord."

"So you must have seen King's Landing, then?"

"Yes, but we didn't get too close. We joined the King's Road towards Storm's End as soon as the paths intersected."

"For the best, for the best," said Lord Clarus, nodding as only a man who knows the road well can nod. "Foul place, and half a warren. I'd be surprised if you couldn't smell it on the wind from where you were, but you can count yourself lucky if you did not." 

Ignis was a little surprised. It was hard to imagine a city being that way even if Lord Clarus was far from the first man he had heard speak disparagingly of the capital. Oldtown, while half a warren itself, always smelled quite sweet, of flowers and the salt air of the sea.

"Come," said the lord. "Let me show you to where you will be housed." 

As it turned out, Maester Ignis was housed in the tower, just below the rookery. He didn't mind this arrangement, for it gave him easy access to the ravens he would care for. He quite liked ravenry, as his three black-iron links suggested, and being able to feed them early without climbing many stairs would only be a benefit to that. 

His rooms were spacious, or would have been had they not still contained the years of accumulated detritus and, it had to be said, dust, of the previous maester. He had not, it seemed, been overly keen on keeping his chambers clean. A fine layer of white covered every surface, from books left abandoned on tables and in piles, to instruments related to crafts that all men of their calling needed to know. The books, it turned out, came from the tower's library, a large room next to his own that contained more volumes than he had expected to see in the castle of a Lord whose line were known more readily for their prowess on the battlefield than anything else. 

He stared around at it and crossed, curiously, to the window to look down upon the castle's grounds, or at least what it was possible to see from there. Between the rain and the darkening sky, all looked grey. The library would be well lit were the weather fair, he thought. Alas, it was not, and so he returned to the chamber that would be his own.

"I admit," Lord Clarus said, looking around at the accumulated dust and clutter that lingered in the wake of his predecessor's passing, "it could do with cleaning up. Towards the end of his life, Maester Jared was rather infirm. The keeping of his quarters got away from him, somewhat. For now, however, I shall have the servants arrange a bath for you, and have your belongings, if you have any, brought up. You will be expected to begin your work here two days hence. Consider tomorrow a day to settle in and get your bearings. I know Storm's End can be a lot to take in all at once, especially in poor weather." 

Maester Ignis looked up at him, barely able to hide his surprise at being given a day's grace. It would give him time to look around, take inventory, and give him a start on the cleaning of his chamber. The bed, it seemed, looked clean enough. Clearly somebody had been in within the past few days to change the bedding for him, if not the entire mattress. Likely after the raven was received from Bronzegate, he thought. "Thank you, my Lord," he said. "I have a few things, books for the most part, and changes of robes, but little else." 

"As you say," Lord Clarus said, giving a nod of confirmation. "I shall inform the kitchenstaff of your arrival and have some food sent up for you shortly. I know I wouldn't want to have to climb those stairs again after a ride from Oldtown." 

After the Lord had taken his leave, Ignis looked around again, taking in his surroundings by the fading light of the window. It was bigger than he had imagined he'd get, but the amount of misplaced clutter made it feel curiously small. Not claustrophobic, just ... little by dint of untidiness. Getting the room fit for habitation would be something he could set his mind to during the times when he had no ravenry to attend, no need to advise his new lord of matters he could speak on and no lessons to give. He knew from what he had been told at the Citadel that Lord Clarus Baratheon had both a son and a daughter, seven-and-ten and two-and-ten respectively. That would require him to educate them on matters that their men-at-arms and septas had no knowledge or interest.

Later that night, when Ignis, clean, warm, and fed, got himself into bed, he could hardly believe his fortune. His bed back at the citadel had been little more than a cot, narrow and stuffed with straw. While this was not as spacious as a lord's, it was nonetheless wider than he was used to and, to his great and tired delight, a featherbed. It seemed to swallow him up as he lay down upon it and he was asleep almost before his head had hit the pillow.

* * * * *

When Maester Ignis awoke, it was thanks to the morning sun streaming in through his window. He resisted the impulse to move immediately, as he would have back in Oldtown with his duties piling up, and simply lay there, watching the dust motes float lazily in the shafts of sunlight that bathed the learned disarray that was his room.

Sunlight. The storm had blown itself out during the night, then. That was a relief. He had heard that the storms that raged in Shipbreaker Bay and Durran's Point, the jut of land upon which Storm's End was built, could last for days. That made yesterday's weather little more than a thunderous gale or squall by comparison. 

By the time he pulled himself from his bed, he half wished he had gone back to sleep. The ache of travel was still upon him and the bath, though hot and soothing for the muscles, had done little to ease the soreness of the saddle. There was a crisp coolness in the air that suggested that, in spite of the warmer weather and the blooming of spring flowers, winter wasn't quite ready to give up the fight. The first thing he did after washing in a bowl of cold water, even before dressing, was rub some oil into his sore palms. He would be feeling the bite of the reins for weeks, he knew that much. He had not, after all, built up the from-childhood tolerance for rough leather like those raised for the knightly or lordly arts, nor had he a life of manual labour behind him. 

His grey robes slipped neatly over his head and he fixed them about himself, by now used to the garments. They had been itchy and unpleasant to start with, but he could hardly imagine dressing like other people these days. They, as well as his chain, were who he was, every bit as important to him as a sigil was to those he would live amongst.

The sun in the sky suggested that he had risen well before noon. He was glad of that. It gave him a good while to try and get used to things before he was expected to begin his duties on the morrow. He would go to the kitchens and procure something to eat and drink, and then ... could he go outside? It would depend what the storm had done to the grounds, he supposed. That, he would soon find out. 

He crossed the room to the door, his bare feet silent on the boards and plain rugs, his chain too short and neat to rattle as those of other maesters did. A few paces from the door, a little way down the plain stone corridor, was a ladder. He knew, for Lord Clarus had told him, that the ladder lead up to the rookery. A metallic tang in the air and the sight of a bucket near the bottom rung told him that whoever had been feeding the birds in the time between maesters had been good enough to leave it there for him to do when he awoke. It was a grisly job, but one he was used to. He would need to remember to set the feed there the night before if he was to avoid the tower's steps in the morning as he had hoped.

The ladder was short enough, and easy to climb even with the rope of the bucket looped over one arm. By the time he reached the top, his hands were dusted and the oil had been rubbed off. Before bed then, he decided. The floor had been at least swept the previous day, to judge by the straw and surprising lack of droppings. It would need cleaning again, but that could wait for a day. What concerned him now was the veritable cacophony of raucous raven calls that greeted him. Or, at least, greeted the man with the bucket. They did not yet know him, though ravens were more than intelligent enough to learn to recognise a face. Some, he knew, could be taught to talk. Or mimic human words at the very least.

"All right, all right," he said into the noise, dipping his hand into the slimy morsels of flesh that filled the bucket. "I hope you aren't going to be the greedy sorts." 

Carefully, he laid the meat out on the trays that were arranged for them to feed from, held up off the bottoms of the cages to prevent the filth from mixing with the food, and pushed them through to their side of the bars. In form, the ravencages of Storm's End were rather more like an aviary than birdcages. They had been kept more confined back at Oldtown, but there were thousands of them, multiple birds for each location. There were so many that there was a separate island at the Citadel with a stronghold long ago converted purely to house their birdstock. Storm's End had far fewer, but the rookery, each part partitioned off and labelled so one knew which bird flew where, was still large. He watched them eat, devouring the lumps with the usual voracity of their kind. They looked healthy enough, their beady eyes bright, their black feathers gleaming even in the gloomy light.

While they squabbled over the meat, he made his way gingerly across the boards to the barred window. Protected from the storms by heavy iron bars set deep into the stone and banded wooden slats that covered them, the window was little more than an arrowslit. It made sense, he supposed. It was easier to completely block up a small window than a big one and the fewer spaces left for wind to enter meant that it could not wage war against the tower from the inside. He unlocked the slats and pulled them aside, giving the ravens a little fresh air. It would do them good after being cooped up during a storm, he thought. 

With that job done, he made his way to the top of the tower by way of a small staircase. The smell that greeted him was the fresh, cool scent of a morning freshly washed. It was welcome after the dank, unpleasant stench of bird. The tower-top was open, and vast. Water pooled in worn indents in the stone, but the sun had all but dried the most of it. Deciding against going too close to the anti-siege weapons that stood positioned around the space, he walked barefoot to the battlements to look over the side. The view almost took his breath away.

"Astounding," he whispered to himself, eyes roving over all he could see. 

The tower looked over what felt like everything. He could see the clear blue cloudless sky above and the sunlight glittering off the water of Shipbreaker Bay. He could see Tarth in the waters beyond, but it was too far away and too misty a distance for him to make out Evenfall Hall, or else the castle wasn't large enough to see without a set of Myrish eyes. In the nearer distance, he could see the Rainwood across the bay at Cape Wrath and all the lands that surrounded Storm's End's vast curtain wall. Closer still, he could see down into the yard, even if the sight was almost enough to dizzy him. From up high, he could see the walled-off Godswood and the huge old Weirwood that stood within it, amongst other, lesser trees, but he couldn't see its face. It came as no surprise that it was empty of people so soon after the rain. Even from up high, he could tell that the stone floor below was still muddied and large puddles reflected the sky above in the bare, uncobbled areas. The people down there seemed tiny from where he stood, the horses too. Tiny and wet, splashing around in the mess. 

He expected that on any other day, he would be able to see knights and squires practising their riding, lance or sword fighting under the tutelage of a master at arms a master of horse, but today there was none of that. There were people tending the horses, of course, but there was no sense in risking their legs in the product of fresh rain. 

He would not, Maester Ignis decided, be going out today. No, he was going to familiarise himself with the layout of the castle and not go beyond that door until things had dried up a little, assuming the storm didn't return for an encore, at least. There was no sense in him ruining another set of robes so soon. The ones he had travelled in had already been deemed likely irreparable, though he had half expected that from more than a full turn's worth of travel, with only the occasional opportunity to wash them in a stream. 

There was no use dwelling on what had been, though. Not when he had so much time ahead of him, and only the space of a day to get accustomed enough to his new home to adequately serve it for the rest. 

The kitchens, it turned out, were on the bottom-most floor though they were, thankfully, a good distance from the stables. Everything of import there was raised up off the ground, likely to protect it from the ever-present threat of rain. The smell of cooking, well-seasoned meat and baking bread was enough to make Ignis's mouth water. It had been too long since he'd smelled that scent, at least without the pungent odour of the sweat and ale that accompanied similar in the taverns and inns between Storm's End and the Citadel. The servants were kind to him, too, and generous. He had missed breakfast, they told him, for he had risen too late, but there was enough left over for him to be given a heel of fresh-baked bread, the cut-end not yet stale, a shiny apple and some cold meat from last night's supper. He sat at one of the out of the way tables and watched them all go about their work, washing it all down with some cool water from a deep well that a kitchenmaid told him was some distance away. It didn't have, he was pleased to taste, the taint of salt.

With his hunger sated, he first presented himself to the lord and informed him that no ravens had arrived for him as yet -- he may not officially begin his duties until the morrow, but a Lord's correspondence was not something he could ignore all the same -- and then familiarised himself with more of the castle. It was large, built on a scale impossibly big, though not absurdly so, like Harrenhal was said to be. It was just ... befitting of a lord paramount, he decided. When he had had his fill of corridors and tapestries depicting the first Storm King's marriage to Elenei, the famous battles and deeds of countless kings called Durran and Orys Baratheon's taking of the house and all relevant history thereafter, he retired once again to his chamber and started the task of attending to the old maester's mess. 

Cleaning the accumulated untidiness of more than half a century, it turned out, was quite the monumental undertaking. There was so much dust that he threw open the windows and took to tying a cloth around his face to keep it from his nose and mouth and he made almost enough trips to and from the library that he was nearly tired of it before he had gotten to spend any time there. He asked some of the servants who worked in that capacity to help beat the rugs free of dust and he had them run damp rags over all the wood and leather in the room that he correctly suspected should not, in fact, be white. By the time he had the room in some sort of order, and it was far from done, he ached almost as much as he had after his time on the road. 

He took his evening meal in the kitchens as he had his breakfast and retired early, before the sun had set. The previous day's rain had prevented him seeing the sight then, but not today. He sat in his chamber, a candle flickering on his desk and a book in his hand, and watched the sky turn pink and orange as the sun sank below the Griffin's Throat. The evening turned chilly as soon as the sun had set, and the breeze from the still-open window made his candle's flame dance atop its wick. Ignis pulled his robes a little closer about himself and suspected that he would, at some future point, have to request thicker robes of the lord, for the climate of the east coast of the Stormlands was far cooler than that of the Oldtown in the Reach. He searched the sky for a sign of another storm, but saw nought but stars. It was clear. Not even the scent of rain could be detected on the breeze, just that of the sea.

He hoped, as he closed the windows against the chill, that tomorrow would be as bright and pleasant as his first day had been.

* * * * * 

Maester Ignis rose early.

To his great relief, the good weather had held and the skies remained as blue as sapphires. He looked, from the narrow view of his window, to see whether there were clouds waiting to burst with rain, but saw none. 

He fed the ravens and broke his own fast as a quick and quiet affair, taking whatever the kitchenstaff offered him gratefully. The fare was good, much better than at the Citadel. He had grown tired of the blandness of salt beef and the hard bread of the road as well, so relished every mouthful of moist, well-flavoured meat and soft bread. 

His morning duties were attended to, and then he was introduced to all he needed to be introduced to, with mercifully little fanfare. Lord Clarus introduced him to his lady wife, Alysanne. Maester Ignis knew she had been a Tyrell before she wed the Storm Lord, though her golden brown eyes and the golden roses stitched artfully into her clothing would have given that away had he not already known. He was introduced to more household Knights than he could hope to learn the names of in a day, and told that in addition to the Lord and Lady's children, he would be expected to educate two boys being fostered at Storm's End: Noctis Stark, heir to Winterfell and future Warden of the North; and Prompto Yronwood, heir to little and less, given that he was a Dornishman with an older sister to claim the lands and holdings of his line ahead of him. 

They were both, at the time of this information being imparted, being taught by the Master of Arms, and Maester Ignis did not interrupt their training to introduce himself. Nor did he immediately seek out Lady Iris, for he had been told she was with the Septa. Instead, he familiarised himself with some of the lower-born residents of the castle, including the boy who was on hand to help with not only the cleaning of the stables, but also the rookery. Talcott, his name turned out to be. He wanted to be Master of Horse when he came of age, but for now had to content himself with scraping dung large and small and putting down fresh straw. Such a duty didn't seem to dampen his spirits, though he was still rather upset that the old maester had been replaced, it seemed. He had liked Maester Jared. Hopefully, Ignis thought, he would grow to like him too. 

For the rest of the morning, he sat with Lord Clarus and discussed the current events taking place in and around the Stormlands. There were, mercifully, no uprisings and no real problems, nor were there any shortages or squabbles that required his attention. His son, he told him, had gone to King's Landing on his behalf some weeks before Ignis had arrived, and was expected back soon. 

"I decided it would do him some good," said Lord Clarus, sipping from a cup. It was, to judge from the smell, hippocras. Maester Ignis had expected ale, or wine. "I know, I know, I said the capital was a dreadful place, and it is. I doubt my son will enjoy the heat any more than I do, and when he spends a few days suffering the smell of rotten food, and worse, he will find that Storm's End no longer seems so drear." 

"Ah," said the maester, a smile turning up the corners of his mouth. "And if he finds it agreeable, my lord?" 

"I find it hard to believe anybody finds that bloody place agreeable," Lord Clarus told him, giving a shrug of his broad shoulders. "I served there for a spell in my youth, before the castle came to me, and it's little wonder the dragon kings spend much of their time at Summerhall or that windblown and rain-battered nightmare out at Dragonstone. It might be nestled in the shadow of a volcano and no more comfortable than the halls of Pyke, but it's better than King's Landing. Aye, there are sights to see and wonders to behold, but not even the Sept of Baelor or the Dragonpit can capture a man's attention for that long."

Maester Ignis nodded, his smile not fading. Ser Gladiolus was a man already. He doubted very much that it would be the ancient buildings and carved monuments of the capital that would capture his imagination. There were closer, softer things that drew the eye much more readily than stone.

"Anyhow," Lord Clarus said, sitting up a little straighter. He had chosen to conduct his affairs in a smaller hall, instead of in the carved and antlered chair in the main one. The seats, at least, were padded and less likely to give a long-term sitter aches and pains. "How are you finding Storm's End?"

Ignis thought carefully about his answer to the question. "It is somewhat bigger than I expected," he admitted. "I dare say it will shrink in time, when I find my way a little more easily. I thought the same of Oldtown when I first arrived there, with its knots of streets and tight alleyways, but if I went back there now I know I could find most places I would need with my eyes closed. Time alone will provide me with a comprehensive map, my lord." And hopefully a guidebook for the myriad faces he would expected to put names to. 

"The boys said the same, you know, in not so many words. Even the future Lord of Winterfell. You know that holding is bigger than Storm's End?"

Ignis did. He knew it was bigger than the Red Keep, the Eyrie and Riverrun as well. It was probably only Harrenhal, the massive castle built on the scale of giants by arrogant, land-bound Iron Men before the Conquest that was bigger, if one didn't count Casterly Rock, whose cellars and basements and dungeons were carved deep into the rock upon which the castle was built. 

"Different layout though," the Lord continued. "Very different. I suppose Yronwood is the same. Still, they settled in well enough and now they can run to almost anywhere in the castle without thinking about it. You will be much the same, I wager."

Maester Ignis nodded his agreement, but silently hoped that running wouldn't really be involved.

"They're good lads, both of them," Lord Clarus confided, "though a little without direction. They frustrate the Master of Arms on occasion. The Stark boy has little interest in learning how to run a tilt and Yronwood is ... I would hesitate to call him craven, but he is somewhat uneasy. Nervous. I suspect he was terrorised by his sister until coming here. She's said to be a formidable young lady, as all Dornishwomen are. It's what happens when you let them inherit ahead of their brothers."

"Quite possibly, my lord," Ignis said, wondering about the truth of those words. Dornish ladies were, indeed, headstrong, and were widely claimed to have fewer of the social graces inherent in those north of the Dornish Marches. Perhaps the heat gave them less of a taste for needlework and the high harp, who knew? As for Noctis... "I doubt a knighthood is in the Stark lordling's future."

"No, true. There are some Northern Knights, and even the Blackwoods have a few, but I doubt we'll see a Ser from Winterfell any time soon, more's the pity. He sits a horse well, better than the Dornish lad for all he dotes on the beasts, but he wants to fish more than joust." 

"And your son, my Lord?" 

"He was given his knighthood around... oh, six moonturns ago now," Clarus said, a smile on his face. "I fear the honour has gone to his head. Let's hope that lessons from you will put some sense into his thick skull, and those of the other boys as well."

The other boys, it turned out later that day, were lads of no more than five-and-ten, and as interested in matters unrelated to swordplay as the lord's son was said to be. 

"I hate doing this," said Prompto, letting his arms fall loosely to his side, eyes cast up at the ceiling. "I'm no good at it." There was a soft tap as the quill fell from his fingers and landed, point down, on the floor.

He was a fair-haired boy, unusual for a Dornishman, but not so strange for an Yronwood. As a member of a more northerly house, he was considered to be of 'stony' stock, and more Andal than Rhoynar. His skin was pale and spattered with freckles and his eyes, unlike the dark ones associated with the men of Dorne, were bright blue. 

His friend, Noctis Stark, was almost as dark as he was light. He had near-black hair, a darker look than worn by most Starks, and dark blue eyes instead of the grey typically associated with their House. What they had in common, however, was their mutual boredom when faced with studying their letters and numbers. The expression that Noctis wore was sombre and sullen and he eyed the book before him as though it had personally disrespected his house, his vassal lords and, quite possibly, everything from the Neck to the Wall.

"Even so," Maester Ignis said, not unkindly, "it is important that you study. You too," he added, giving Noctis what he hoped was a stern look. "You will run Winterfell one day, and all of the North will answer to you. It is vital that you know your letters and sums in order to keep your correspondence and hold your accounts." 

"The Others take my letters and sums," Noctis muttered sourly, tapping the feathered end of his quill against his lips, "When I rule the North I will have a maester of my own to read for me, and stewards to pore over the numbers as well."

Ignis snorted, just softly, the sound coming almost unbidden as a rush of air through his nose. "As you may, but you will still need to know how to do it all the same, if only to check their work and ensure they aren't cheating you, and a learned man is harder to cheat than most." 

The lordling looked even more petulant at that and pulled the book a little closer, even as Prompto sighed heavily and bent to pick up his fallen quill. 

"I brought with me some boiled sugar from the Oldtown markets," it was with a casual tone that Ignis spoke. "I could be persuaded to part with a piece or two if the work I set you both is completed to my satisfaction." 

By the end, both boys went off with a lump of hard sugar-crystal in their mouths as Maester Ignis looked over their work. Prompto, it turned out, had a neater hand than Noctis, but Noctis had the better grasp of grammar. Still, they could both be worse. No matter how much each complained about having to do things that didn't involve hitting each other with edgeless swords, they had better skills than some of those he had endured the company of in the Citadel. He was impressed, albeit mildly. Pleased, he helped himself to a smaller of the crystals.

* * * * *

It was four more days before Ser Gladiolus returned to Storm's End.

Maester Ignis had started to settle in and the weather, against everyone's expectations, had held. Feather-white clouds shifted lazily across the blue, and the winds remained gentle, bringing with them only the smell of the sea and none of a storm. In the days since his arrival, he had become known around the castle, but few knew his name, opting only to use his title. It didn't bother him; he hadn't learned theirs either. He knew some, those more important than others, but many were lost on him as yet. He expected he would learn in time, as would they. 

He found that he liked the two boys fostering at Storm's End, even amid their complaints. Noctis was shy, and tried to hide this behind stubbornness, and Prompto was similar, but attempted to conceal his nervousness behind bravado, his expression always as open as a flower. Together they messed around and tip-tapped, egging each other on, both in the study-room and out of it. Their fierce one-upmanship proved to be their weak spot and pitting them against each other, even good naturedly, was how one got them to work. 

The Lady Iris was quite different. She was bold, willful and bright and she managed it all with the large and innocent eyes of a doe. Her smiles came easily and she could barely believe how young the new maester was, especially in comparison to old Maester Jared. She had loved him well, during his time spent teaching her, but his frailty had come on fast and she had been left, as had the boys, to study and read under Lord Clarus, or other available teachers. She hadn't suffered for the lack of a maester, though. That much was certain. She read better than either of the fosterlings in spite of her years and she assured him, with the gravity and pride that only a young girl could muster, that she could sing and dance and sew as well. 

In the late afternoon, after Maester Ignis had attended to his duties, he sat in the library, the window thrown open to tempt in a warm breeze and air out the smell of must and old leather. He enjoyed the smell of libraries, but this one was well past an airing. Absorbed in a book about the great battles of the Marcher Lords, he was lost to the world until the great creaking of the wall's main gate brought him out of his reverie. 

He stood from his chair and peered out of the window at the yard below, shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand. A gust of wind brought up the smell of the stables, but he ignored it, listening for the opening of the inner gate. Since he had come to Storm's End, there had been no other guests. He hadn't heard the gates open even once, though he suspected they must have, for Old Beck and his cart and beasts had gone when he had checked for them. The scraping of an un-oiled hinge and the hollow tapping of horse-hooves on stone told of knights, for no cartwheels accompanied the sound. He squinted against the light as the riders came out of the gloom. There were five of them, all dressed in mail and surcoats, their horses nevertheless unbarded. He couldn't make them out from so high up, but it would be prudent, he knew, to see if they had any injuries that needed attending. 

He descended the stairs from the maester's tower as fast as he dared. He didn't wish to turn a corner and find himself colliding with a servant and he had no great desire to slip on the stone steps and cut short his service that way, either. He took his time, knowing that it would take time to sort the horses and relieve the travellers, knights, he assumed, of their steel burdens. 

He didn't make it as far as the yard. 

"Maester Ignis!" 

He knew that high voice, but he had never yet heard such excitement in it. Lady Iris bounded up the corridor from the great hall, her practised grace all but left behind amongst her undoubtedly perfect embroidery. 

"What is it, my lady?" He asked, smiling kindly. 

"My brother's home," she declared, her cheeks pink from the run, a smile lighting up her face in a way that sums and songs and tales of chivalry never could. "He's been away for so long, but he's back! And he brought knights with him!" She grasped his hand and tugged him in the direction of the hall. 

Maester Ignis knew that, of course. He had seen the men from the window. Even if he had not, he knew that the heir to Storm's End would hardly ride from King's Landing by himself. It would be a risk, strong as the Baratheons were known to be, and he had not even had twenty years. Beyond that, it would be tiresome, and lonely, and a small guard would be expected besides. He allowed himself to be pulled all the same.

A fire still burned in the Great Hall's hearth. It took months to get the chill out of the old stone, Lord Clarus had said, and the thick walls of the outer yard made it impossible for the warmth to penetrate without a long and drawn out siege of its own. Ignis already knew that the warmth settled in the entrance tunnel, he'd felt that upon his arrival, though he hadn't considered that it would take time and many more sunny days for it to get deeper into the castle. The fire would be burning until the end of the spring, the lord had told him with certainty. Only summer was likely to be successful at driving out the chill and by that point they'd all be wishing it would return to give them some respite. 

The lord was on his feet, greeting the men who stood between him and his daughter and maester. There were five of them, most of them dressed in what could only be house colours. Maester Ignis could see one man clad in black and red, with dark red hair to match. Two of them had hair that was a most unusual shade of blue, a dye undoubtedly sourced from Tyrosh of all places, where the men were famed for their flamboyantly dyed hair and beards, but Ignis couldn't fathom why they did it. He certainly couldn't begin to guess why two Westerosi knights would style themselves that way. The shorter of them had colours of black and bronze and purple and the taller was garbed in blue and silver. He had turned at the sound of feet behind him, showing off the blue lion stitched into his surcoat. It was a sigil that Maester Ignis did not recognise; personal arms, then. The fourth man was dressed plainly, in stark contrast to the two of them, in modest but untarnished armour and well-made blackened leather. The fifth... there was no mistaking him. 

Even from a distance it was clear that the young heir was taller than his father, and well on his way to being broader too. He wore the black and gold of his house well. From the back, Maester Ignis could see that he had the thick, shining black hair of all Baratheon men and what he could see of his face told him that he did not go cleanshaven, either. He hung back in spite of the urging from Lady Iris, who finally gave up, loosed his hand, and ran to embrace her brother as though she hadn't seen him in a lifetime. 

"About time," he laughed, his voice carrying in the hollow hall. It was a low voice, deeper than one usually attributed to such a young knight, and it had the sort of gentle roughness to it that would make a maiden flush. 

"Iris," Lord Clarus said, shaking his head wearily. "You should behave as a lady. You are too old for this. And in front of knights, too." His smile did not match the admonishment. Clearly the girl's fondness for her older brother was well-known. 

"Sorry father," she said, letting go of Ser Gladiolus with some reluctance. 

"You can see your brother later," said the lord, quite kindly. "For now, we have matters to discuss. I'm sure your septa is wondering where you are at this hour."

Lady Iris sighed, but did her best not to pout. She gave her lord father a quick curtsy and turned again to give her brother a grin. When she retraced her steps to her new maester, it was with all the grace of a highborn lady. Having been dismissed, she sought to take his hand again, but stopped at the sound of the lord's voice.

"Maester Ignis," he called. "Come." 

Giving Lady Iris an apologetic smile he stepped forward, no maester's rattle accompanying his steps. 

As he passed the knights, he got a better look at them and their sigils. The one garbed in red and black was of House Cole, a house that Ignis knew, its sigil an array of black studs on red. The shorter of the two blue-haired men was of House Royce of the Gates of the Moon, a cadet branch whose sigil was a white moon on purple, caged behind the bars of a portcullis. He stood out starkly, mostly for the cross-shaped scar between his eyes. The other, judging by the lion, could be a Lannister bearing his personal crest to set him apart from the others, or perhaps a Reyne, at a push. His eyes were the mid-blue of an afternoon sky, a perfect match for his roaring lion and, it had to be said, his hair. He was perhaps a bastard, though it was unkind to assume such things. He could as easily be a younger son, a cousin to the Lord of Casterly Rock or Lannisport, or a nephew. Even up close, he could not ascertain the identity of the fourth man. He was older than the others and had short-cropped hair of common brown, his beard the same. Like the other, he had an unknown lion as his sigil. This one stood out black on silver, passant regardant instead of the rampant seen in those of the Lannisters, Reynes and Osgreys, its raised paw resting atop a heart picked out in reddish-pink. He too had blue eyes, though they were impossibly light, even in the relative dimness of the Great Hall.

All four were tall, with only the Royce Knight standing shorter than Maester Ignis himself.

Up close, the lord's son seemed to dwarf all of them. He was at least six and a half feet tall and every bit a Baratheon. Maester Ignis could feel his eyes on him, but kept his attention on the lord who had called him forth. Being at the centre of attention wasn't a thing to which he was yet accustomed, but he would be, one day. 

"This is Maester Jared's replacement," Lord Clarus said, addressing Ser Gladiolus with both warmth and formality in his voice. "Maester Ignis." 

Maester Ignis looked up into the face of the heir to Storm's End and felt his mouth go a little bit dry. The gods had seen fit to give him eyes of bright honey-brown and hair as dark and glossy as the feathers of any raven. Even at seventeen, he had a black covering of hair on his cheeks and chin, cropped just short of being a real beard, though there was no doubt it could be that if he wanted. He was handsome, almost beyond reason. If this was the face passed down through the Baratheon line, it was no wonder the daughter of the last Storm King was content to take the hand of the man who slew her father, baseborn or not. 

Ser Gladiolus raised his thick brows a fraction, not bothering to hide a look of surprise. It was fleeting, like a moment of shadow thrown to the ground by a cloud crossing the sun, and disappeared entirely as he smiled. It was a broad, easy smile that showed his teeth and a devilish disregard for the rules. "You're younger than I expected," he said, his voice a warm growl of a thing better suited to a wolf or lion than a stag. 

Maester Ignis opened his mouth to speak, feeling nervous under the young knight's gaze. He saw him take in everything, his roughspun grey robes, his hair made untidy by the breeze from the library window. His eyes lingered on his for a long moment, not doing anything to help his voice come out of hiding. Steeling himself, he swallowed, and gave a nod. "Yes, Ser Gladiolus," he said at last. "You are not the first to make such an observation." 

"I doubt I'll be the last," he told him, holding his gaze a moment longer before he looked away with a shake of the head. "And call me Gladio. _Ser_ Gladio if you must, but only my lord father addresses me by my full name." He cast a meaningful look at Lord Clarus, who simply returned it, eyebrows raised. 

"Your mother and I gave you that name, Gladiolus, and by the gods we're going to use it. You may convince others to shorten it, and accept your sister's nicknames too, but you'll be Gladiolus to me until you have to stand my vigil." 

Ser Gladio sighed. He turned one side of his mouth up in a half smile, glancing again at the new maester, his expression open and speaking its complaints at suffering that speech, apparently again, for all the world to hear. 

Maester Ignis found himself barely able to conceal a smile. 

"And now," said the young knight, giving his father a bow. "If I may take my leave. I'd like to wash off the dust of the road and see if I can't catch Stark and Yronwood slacking off." He paused. "Again." With a nod from his father, he turned, but not before his eyes fell once again upon the maester. "I expect we'll be seeing rather a lot of each other, Maester Ignis."

Ignis, it had to be said, rather hoped so.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's it for the first chapter! 
> 
> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it. I also hope you come back for the next bit. c:


End file.
